


this noise i cannot shake

by twitcher



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Bestiality, Come Inflation, Knotting, Leshens (The Witcher), M/M, Sloppy Seconds, Tentacle Rape, Vines, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:28:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28854312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twitcher/pseuds/twitcher
Summary: Jaskier decides, within these circumstances, that perhaps it is time to panic. Just a little.or: the boys find a leshen, or it finds them--and brings company!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Monster(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Monster(s)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 210





	this noise i cannot shake

**Author's Note:**

> _A leshen capturing Jaskier and Geralt with vines and forcing them both to take wolf cock after wolf cock, facing each other. Geralt licking all the wolf cum out of Jaskier before fucking him, ignoring how his own ass is drenched_
> 
> an old prompt fill that i LOVE with all my heart

_You'll know it when you see it_ , Geralt had said. 

_Hard to miss_ , Geralt had said. 

_Run_ , Geralt had shouted after the bloody thing already had one creepy tendril wrapped firmly around Jaskier's ankle. 

Jaskier did not, in fact, know it when he saw it. 

Neither did Geralt. 

Only a glimpse of the leshen's harrowing antlers peaked out from between the leaves, and the ivory flash of its skull, and Jaskier didn't really _know_ what it looked like before, and he's still not sure what it looks like now, and isn't it Geralt's job to sense its presence before it puts its hands on them? 

"You're getting old," Jaskier says to his witcher, unbothered even as he's slowly but steadily lifted off the ground. Geralt will handle it, after all. More and more vines curl around his limbs, slither beneath his--

 _Oh_. 

His trousers are thick brocade, his chemise a sturdy linen; they fall in tatters off his body, landing in a sad, sad heap of snapped threads. Jaskier is momentarily startled by how horribly strong the creature is. 

_"It controls animals. And plants."_

_"What's it going to do with plants?"_

A pit of dread settles in his chest as he watches Geralt's silver sword drop to the grass with a dull sound, more vines crawling out from the earth and seizing the witcher in a tight hold. Jaskier tries not to give himself over to panic, tries not to focus on the feeling of thick, wax-smooth tendrils wrapping around both of his thighs and yanking them violently apart, in a manner entirely too private. 

"Ge- _ralt_?"

Except when Jaskier looks over to his witcher he finds him in a state much similar, his skin a pale shock where Jaskier expects black leather. 

"Fuck," he only hears Geralt say before a bright flame scorches the vines nearest to the ground. 

_Thank the gods for fancy witcher magic_ , Jaskier thinks, but it's no time at all before slender tendrils come up to wrap around Geralt's fingers, immobilising them, tying his witcher's hands behind his back, just as Jaskier's are.

Jaskier decides, within these circumstances-- trussed up like a hog at the butcher's, his legs spread obscenely, wrists bound tightly together, an increasingly choking hold around his throat--that perhaps it is time to panic. Just a little. 

The vines lower him to the ground, chest pressed to the cold earth, knees apart--and it's a cruel twist of fate, he supposes, that Geralt is carefully situated just next to him, so close that their shoulders touch and Jaskier can feel the warmth of Geralt's breath on his face. 

Something creeps up the back of his thigh, thick and rigid and it--

" _Geralt_ ," he begins, but words fail him, his voice pitching up until it dissolves into a quiet sob. 

The tendril enters him quickly, a brutal stretch that sets Jaskier's body on fire, and he--gods, why is this happening? 

"Don't--don't think about it. Look at me. Look at me, Jaskier."

Jaskier doesn't want to look. He shakes his head and keeps his eyes squeezed shut as he's taken mercilessly by a gods-damned _plant_ , and he can only hear the revolting, wet sound of it moving in and out of him, something slimy and slippery dripping from it and all over Jaskier. His thighs shake. Or maybe he shakes all over. 

Geralt groans softly next to him. 

A haze overtakes him, makes his vision blurry and his focus cloudy. Soothes his soul and lets him go pliant, limp. Receptive.

"Make it stop--gods, Geralt, please, _anything_ \--" he sniffles weakly and without heat, because it does hurt so horribly, but he--

It--

Fuck, Jaskier moans despite himself, and a burning hatred overtakes him wholly. 

His traitor of a cock swells to hardness, until he's entirely too close to begging for touch. 

" _Fuck_."

Jaskier opens his eyes just in time to see Geralt slam his face into the dirt with a deep rumble, and if he twists his neck enough he can--

He can see Geralt's cock, red and angry, drooling his seed into a puddle beneath him.

Jaskier's delirious, he must be. Lying in a ratty two-copper inn, burning with a terrible fever, dreaming of outlandish horrors that can't possibly have befallen him. 

A vine tightens around his throat, restricting his breath. Jaskier prays to wake from this nightmare. 

There's a sound, suddenly, a quiet rustling of something approaching. Perhaps it's the leshen coming to end his misery, he thinks, _hopes_ , until a pair of sodden grey paws comes into his line of view, followed by another and another. Soft fur brushes the backs of his legs, a cold nose nudging where a tendril still pumps in and out of him. Jaskier wants to howl, but the wolves would probably like that. 

"Don't panic," Geralt tells him through gritted teeth. "They won't hurt you."

 _I wish they would_ , Jaskier thinks hysterically. _Rip me to shreds so I don't have to think about my cock being hard._

The tendril retreats from violating him. Leaves him empty. Leaves him-- _wanting_. 

He's disoriented for a moment by the weight at his back. Then, the realisation hits him like a punch to the gut. 

"No, gods, n--Geralt, _please_ , I can't, I--"

The wolf pants above him wetly, its claws raking down Jaskier's sides as it ruts against him. 

Geralt makes a sound, low and needy and Jaskier can't help but wonder if he's _enjoying_ this, but the thought is as fleeting as his hope of being rid of this terror. The wolf's cock breaches his body, thick and hot and monstrous and Jaskier whimpers when it starts fucking him without a shred of restraint, knocking the air straight from his lungs. 

Jaskier is--a connoisseur, of sorts. Endlessly on a quest to find a dick that'll make his eyes cross and his legs shake. 

He is mortified to find that the wolf's cock does just that, driving into him brutally and turning his very existence on its head. The burn of the stretch dissipates into a horrible, shuddering pleasure, leaves him helpless to do anything but be flung towards the edge at breakneck speed, his whole body tingling with it.

Jaskier attempts to focus on something, anything at all, to take his mind off the relentless, overpowering ecstasy. His frantic eyes settle on Geralt; how his brow furrows, but his mouth goes slack. How he thrashes in the bonds, but thrusts his hips back. How his exhales turn into moans, faint and precious, nearly drowned out by the wolves' panting, the sickening snap of flesh. 

" _Geralt_ ," Jaskier breathes when his impending release chokes him with its urgency. "Geralt, Geralt, Geralt--"

Golden eyes stare back at him, brimming with black pupil, devoid of their usual sharpness. Jaskier could drown in the lust, so achingly apparent it's almost palpable. 

The vine around his throat doesn't loosen, but Jaskier can risk being suffocated, he'd risk anything as he strains to bring his lips closer to Geralt's in a mad rush of need.

The wolf's knot drags deliciously out of him, expanding each time it's forced back in, until it swells too big to get out, and Jaskier spends himself in a dizzy flash with the beast's seed filling him up and Geralt's tongue in his mouth. 

They stay like that, kissing weakly, waiting for the wolves to retreat, shivering from the cold and the overstimulated pleasure in equal parts. 

It hurts, when a second wolf takes him, and Jaskier is half-mad with desire that feels distinctly magical, but he moans his way through another release, another knot, another wolf mounting him and filling him until he's sure he'll burst. His lips feel bruised, numb and swollen and perfect, and Jaskier is so lost in the sensation, he doesn't register the silence that falls over them, or the tendrils around him sliding over his body, away from where they're gripping him. 

"Jaskier," he hears Geralt say, large hands spanning the expanse of his sweat-slick back. 

Without the vines' support, Jaskier collapses on the ground. Boneless. Light-headed. Wolf spend gushes out of him, runs down his thighs, and he can't fathom feeling so full and so empty all at once. He can't fathom much at all. 

Geralt calls his name over and over, but Jaskier hears it as though his head is underwater. The high sun hurts his eyes when he's suddenly rolled onto his back, the sky too bright, too blue and insulting. Everything is--just _too_. Jaskier distantly wonders if dawn had turned on them, if the violation lasted through the night and he simply didn't notice. 

Geralt's broad palms around his thighs make him jerk, so warm and soft and flesh-like after the rigid vice that held him for so long. 

He drags his eyes down to where Geralt kneels between his spread legs; glistening in the sunlight, beautiful in his wild ferocity. Even after everything. 

"Geralt," Jaskier says, slurred and unintelligible. He's so _light_. "Witcher."

It must be no effort at all for Geralt to hitch Jaskier's thighs over his shoulders, because he does just that, before Jaskier knows that he'd been moved at all. He tries to draw his legs together; hide the shameful parts of him, his sloppy, fucked-out hole, his dreadfully still-hard cock. Geralt's gaze seems hungry as he takes it all in. 

Had he any strength still left in his body, Jaskier might have screamed at the first touch of Geralt's tongue to his sore rim. He whines, instead, twisting his fingers weakly in Geralt's hair, overwhelmed and overpowered. 

The sound of it is utterly filthy. Unholy. Blasphemous, almost, if Jaskier cared at all about things of the spiritual sort. Only for a moment does he dare think about Geralt drinking wolf come out of him like he's _starving_ for it, and a rush of dizziness makes his vision spot. Gods, but it's so _good_ to have his witcher touch him. 

He tugs on the silver strands woven around his fingers and Geralt moans, reedy and wanton, plunging his tongue deeper. Fuck, Jaskier could come again, just from this. He'd come an unreasonable amount of times, unnatural, suspicious--and perhaps the strange magic that the leshen inexplicably cast on them still holds tight, who knows--but Jaskier's prick twitches and pulses and he's so very close, he drags Geralt's head up, puts that hot mouth around the tip his cock. 

It takes him a whole of three seconds to spill down Geralt's throat, a pitiful trickle that Geralt swallows nonetheless. 

"Fuck."

Jaskier spares a thought to the leshen while he tries to catch his breath, once his head seems clearer. Surely Geralt should go after it. Surely it isn't safe to lounge in the grass with a vengeful, ancient being strolling about. Surely--

But Geralt crawls on top of him, then, a crushing, solid weight, their lips mashed clumsily together, and his cock slips into Jaskier so easily he banishes all thought entirely.

"Fuck, you're so _loose_ ," Geralt groans, his sharp canines scraping the side of Jaskier's jaw.

He can't--he doesn't know how Geralt has the strength to pound into him so viciously, but it doesn't matter; Jaskier lies there and takes it, takes all of it, the urgent, insistent snap of Geralt's hips, the harsh bites along the column of his throat, the burn of being used so thoroughly. 

Geralt growls at him, no less animal than the wolves had been, and when he comes inside Jaskier--blessedly quickly--he stays buried as deep as he can, keeping his seed from spilling out. 

"There," he says eventually, when Jaskier's grip on consciousness finally wavers. "At least you're claimed properly."

**Author's Note:**

> come see me [@hardkinkbardkink](https://hardkinkbardkink.tumblr.com) x


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